J'ai Gange
by Tabii
Summary: A Francis/Joan of Arc story. '“I win, Angleterre,” he says, “She’s still alive.”' Please read and review? Rating to be safe.


It was almost June, yet Francis' demeanor was dark and bleak. Jeanne- _his Jean d'Arc-_ was to be burned at the stake that day. He was keeping her company in her dank prison cell, murmuring prayers like he usually murmured sweet nothings, and assuring her that it had been God who had spoken to her, who had sent her those visions.

He had been with her since she had been assaulted a few days ago. That was the wonder of being a nation- nothing was closed to you.

"_J'ai regret, je suis desole," _he whispered as he held her. It was all he could do. He hadn't been able to stop the assault and he couldn't free her, but he could sit with her in her last hours and try to…put her at ease.

Arthur would pay for this; Francis would make sure of that. He would not let his young love…his first true love…be tortured and murdered like this without extracting some form of vengeance. He ran his fingers through Jeanne's short hair.

"Francis…"

Her voice was weak and Francis longed for a cup of clean water to give her to drink. While he was wishing, he wished for a doctor and a full pardon for Jeanne. He wished Arthur would go back to his miserable little island and just leave him alone. And- briefly- he wished he were human, so that even if his other wishes fell through, he might join Jeanne in the afterlife.

"_Francis, je suis tres peur."_

"_Je sais, mon chevalier, je sais."_

_

* * *

  
_

"Her heart was thrown into the Seine!"

"Saw it with my own eyes!"

"It was still beating!"

"It was the work of God!"

The things people came up with. Francis knew that Jeanne's heart had been thrown into the Seine, but it hadn't been whole, and it certainly hadn't been still-beating. She had been burned to death- her charred corpse revealed to the on-looking crowd to assure she hadn't escaped alive- then burned again until she was no more than ashes.

But Francis had let the myth continue, in Jeanne's legacy. It made her even more of a heroine, it cast her among the stars, made her a symbol. Arthur could destroy her, but he could not destroy the idea of her. He could not destroy the fact that she had existed and that she had loved and fought for Francis and what she believed in.

No matter. Jeanne's heart…had been his for some time.

* * *

"What do you guys have against my Ren Faires, anyways?" Alfred asks as he parks his Jeep in the field-turned-parking-lot.

"They're not authentic," Arthur grumbles.

"They're all based off this _Rosbif's_ culture," Francis says smoothly, "Or lack thereof."

The two European nations glare at each other as they begin walking towards the wooded area where the bulk of the faire is held.

"Aww…lighten up! They're _fun!_"

As the day passes, Francis has to admit that this particular faire is more authentic than other he's seen. The buildings are permanent, despite the fact that the faire is only held from May to September. People speak in what Americans accept as "Renaissance" accents and colloquialisms. There are outdoor shows- puppeteers and jugglers and wandering poets and exotic animals. There are singers, musicians, jesters and peddlers and the two older nations have to smile at the quaintness of it all. It isn't particularly close to the Renaissance- not to two people who lived through it- but they have to cut Alfred a little slack. The boy is trying, at least.

"C'mon! C'mon! We've got to see the joust!"

The joust is enjoyable enough- the standard tricks and shows of derring-do, as well as an introduction to the knights who will participate in the other two scheduled jousts. A giant puppet of a dragon surprises the crowd and scares the children when it rears up over the back fence. The actors ride of to "consort on how to slay the dragon" and the crowd thins. The three nations are about to leave, when three children run onto the now-empty field.

"Hah!" a boy who appears to be the oldest cries, brandishing a wooden sword at his companions, "I'm going to show you two what _real_ knights are made of!"

"No way!" yells one of the other two, another boy around six or seven years of age, "I'm a real knight, and I'm gonna protect this fair maiden!"

The nations exchange looks. Maiden? Surely there are three _boys_, unless it is one of those cruel jokes children make about each other?

The third child stamps its feet, unsheathing another wooden play sword from their belt.

"I don't need protecting!" the high, indignant tone of voice sheds light on the child's gender, despite her bowl cut, "I'm Joan of Arc, and I'll kick _both_ your butts!"

Francis' heart leaps to his throat. This child…this little, noisy, _American_ child…knows about Jeanne.

"Francis…?"

Francis swallows hard, smiling nostalgically.

"I win, _Angleterre_," he says, "She's still alive."

"Huh?"

"I guess you do, Frog," Arthur says, still watching the three children chasing each other around the field, brandishing their swords, "I guess you do."

* * *

AN: The Ren Faire the guys visit at the end is **King Richard's Faire.** I go there every summer/fall in costume. Yes, I was Joan of Arc when I was six. Yes, I had a bowl cut. I tried to cut my own hair and things ended badly. Please review?


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